


I Surrender

by tenderly_wicked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Kink, Roleplay, Sherlock as Khan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 10:12:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderly_wicked/pseuds/tenderly_wicked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21766.html?thread=129069318#t129069318">this prompt</a>. John notices: Sherlock has a striking resemblance to Khan from <i>Star Trek Into Darkness</i>. John’s heart skipped a beat when in the movie, Khan said, “I surrender”. So he suggests a roleplay with a dub-con/non-con scenario where Khan is captured. It doesn't work out the way John expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Surrender

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta [mugenmine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mugenmine/pseuds/mugenmine)!
> 
> This fic is a small treat for those who were asking for a sequel of [“Inhuman”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/832450) (though it’s a stand-alone story). In another universe, Sherlock-Khan finally meets his John, and may they live and prosper :-)

“Let’s play this out logically, John. So you want me to act as a fictional character, a three-hundred-year-old, genetically engineered superhuman. Kha-an.” Sherlock pronounces this name with distaste, and John cringes, flushed with humiliation. “And moreover,” Sherlock continues, as if John doesn’t look mortified quite enough, “while I’m pretending to be Khan, you want me to submit to you, sexually and otherwise. And all because I bear a resemblance to the actor playing this role. Did I get it right?”

John sighs. “Um. Basically yes.” It was an idiotic idea of course, suggesting roleplay—sexual roleplay to be precise—and hoping Sherlock would approve. But it was worth a try. As they had been watching this “Star Trek” movie, his heart had definitely skipped a beat at the scene when Khan let the Starfleet squad cuff him. And a few beats more as Khan was held captive on board of the USS Enterprise and the local doctor took his superhuman blood to perform some tests. The likeness between Khan and Sherlock was really striking, and so was the idea of men as strong and intelligent as them submitting to someone, willingly or not. John would never force Sherlock to do anything he didn’t want, but the thought of conveying this somewhat “not-good” fantasy into roleplay was excruciatingly tempting. And here he is, facing Sherlock’s inevitable rejection.

Sherlock makes a grimace and says… “Fine.”

John can’t quite believe it. “Fine?”

Sherlock nods. “You heard me. I surrender.” And adds, with a mocking, provocative half-smile, “Captain. Or should I call you Doctor?”

At first, John can’t choose if he wants to be Captain Kirk who arrests Khan, and punches him in the process, or Bones, the doctor who seems to be fascinated with Khan’s superhuman physique. But the decision comes naturally. John doesn’t want to act angry and throw punches, no, he’d prefer to have Sherlock at his mercy, to perform various seemingly medical tests on him and have a good look at his body during the course of these experiments.

Doctor mode then.

Maybe this desire to bring Sherlock to submission is merely a wish to go slow, to be in charge and finally have an opportunity to poke and probe and observe Sherlock’s reaction to various kinds of stimulation, of a sexual kind. Using this knowledge, John would systematically—and gently—take him apart. Their previous encounters had been anything but slow and systematic. Sherlock preferred quick, feverish coupling in the dark. He always set a challenging pace, whether he was topping or bottoming. Sherlock kissed and licked and bit and rutted against John with a desperate, if somewhat clumsy passion, like it was the last time they would ever have sex, and thus gave John little chance to explore his body at leisure. And John wanted this very much.

Now it’s time to fulfill the dream.

Sherlock takes the preparations seriously, and he’s inventive, as always, much more resourceful than John. Because he’s better. At everything. For instance, John would have never thought of covering the furniture in Sherlock’s room with white sheets and transparent polyester foil and finding a brighter bulb to make the environment more like a spaceship medical unit, frighteningly sterile and lit with harsh artificial light. The bed has been deprived of the heavy duvet and has another white sheet spread over it, wrinkleless and meticulously tucked into the corners of the mattress, like a simple bunk. The contents of John’s medical kit are laid out on a metallic instrument tray, and Sherlock’s desk is covered with paper like an examination table.

Sherlock stands in the middle of the room, breathtakingly handsome, dressed in very fitted charcoal grey pants and a plain black vest, with long sleeves and a shallow smock-like neck—an almost accurate replica of what Khan wears in the movie, only the Starfleet emblem is missing. Sherlock’s back is unnaturally straight, and his face stern, like he’s gathered his resolve to stoically pass a tiresome ordeal, and maybe he looks just a little bit apprehensive too. Sherlock is such a good actor.

John hasn’t been as thorough in his preparations, but he’s sure that wearing a blue pullover, more or less resembling the one worn by the Starfleet doctor, and having a clipboard in his hands will suffice for his role. He’s an actual doctor after all.

Sherlock gives him a moody glance. “Is it standard procedure, a medical examination for those you hold captive?”

“Not exactly,” John murmurs, pretending to check something in his papers. “For a start, we don’t usually have any captives, as you call it, in the med bay. You’re an exception. Besides, you don’t seem to be standard. Judging from what Captain has told me, looks like we have a superhuman on board.”

A smile curves in the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “So disturbing for your tiny, well-organized world. And yes, I am exceptional as you have noticed.”

John doesn’t know how a Starfleet doctor would react at this teasing, slightly bored tone. He frowns. “Now, shall we begin?”

“That was exactly what I was going to suggest,” Sherlock says deadpan.

Sherlock sits down on the exam table, just like he’s told, and doesn’t object to pushing up his sleeve. John checks his blood pressure, takes a blood sample (“That’s to figure out your physiology.”), then points a penlight into Sherlock’s pupils, in turn.

“Open your mouth.” Sherlock obeys. It’s strange and exiting to have him comply with every command. John’s thumb brushes Sherlock’s lower lip, casually, as he examines the pink insides of his throat. He’s keen to bring the game to a new level.

“Now take off your vest,” John orders.

He reaches for the stethoscope, fits the ear pieces into his ears, and warms the chest-piece with one hand. When he turns back, Sherlock is still sitting on the exam table, fully dressed.

“I’ll just check your heart and your lungs,” John says. “You shouldn’t be alarmed.”

“It doesn’t alarm me. They are perfectly functioning.” Sherlock’s tone is slightly strained. Very convincing, like he’s nervous and doesn’t want to let it show.

Again, John admires his acting talent. He presses a hand to Sherlock’s chest, lightly, as if for comfort, and feels a small nub of his nipple perking through the thin fabric. “You’ll just breathe in and out on my command. Nothing too complicated. Nothing that will hurt you, promise. I’m a doctor, you shouldn’t be shy of me.” He has plans to gradually get rid of all these grey Starfleet clothes, and give Sherlock a thorough, prolonged prostate exam, threatening to “call in the guards” and have him cuffed if he resists his medical research. But the vest has to come off first anyway.

“All right,” Sherlock agrees reluctantly as John’s hand slides down to his thigh and rests there—a seemingly reassuring gesture.

Sherlock slowly removes his vest.

Circular white and pink spots cover Sherlock’s abdomen. Granular tissue. Damaged flesh, probably a result of multiple third-degree burns. The unexpectedness and brutality of it freezes John in place. He feels stupid, standing there with his stethoscope and just staring. He doesn’t know what to say.

“You can touch,” Sherlock suggests in a strange tone, tossing the vest away. “It’s not infectious. Just scars. A remnant of a time long passed.”

John lightly presses onto one of the slightly raised dots with the tip of his finger, as if mesmerized. “Cigarette burns?”

“Oh you are smart, Doctor.”

“How?” It’s the only coherent question John can force out at the moment.

“Intellect alone is useless in a fight, especially when you’re overpowered by superior force. A one to five combat ratio leads to quite predictable results, unless you’re a genetically engineered perfection, which I’m not. And then…”

An awkward silence settles between them.

“I think we’d better stop,” John finally says. He turns away to put the stethoscope on the tray, but Sherlock’s words hit him in the back and bring him to a halt.

“I knew it would be a turn-off.” Sherlock’s voice sounds dead. “Of course you would have seen it eventually. I thought—if it were a roleplay scenario, if you saw these scars as a part of the game—maybe you wouldn’t be so repelled. I had every reason to suspect you would, and yet—” John is now looking at him, and Sherlock’s lips press into a thin, bitter line before he adds, “However flattering it might have been to pretend that I’m a perfect specimen, now we both know it’s not quite true.”

And that’s when John gets it. Sherlock’s barely hidden nervousness, his tension and hesitance—it wasn’t an act. When Sherlock agreed to this roleplay, he dropped his shields and surrendered to John’s mercy, unconditionally, knowing what might come of it. Did he think that John would stop wanting him now?

“Oh you fool,” John breathes out and clumsily climbs up onto the exam table to sit beside Sherlock. It makes his heart clench, the way Sherlock jerks at the touch when he draws a hand across his stomach, another arm encircling Sherlock’s waist. “Do you mind if we change the rules a bit?”

Sherlock looks down at him, uncomprehending—an unusual expression on his face, almost helpless, and John hastily explains, “Let’s imagine I’m still a doctor, but not a stranger. Someone Khan would know, a man from his awoken crew. There’s a history between them. Maybe they were lovers long ago, and certainly friends. Do you think this man would be repelled, as you put it, to see new scars on Khan’s body? Not upset but disgusted? I don’t think so. Especially since he’s got a scar of his own.” John backs away to take off his pullover to show the scar on his shoulder. “You’ve seen it, many times. You clearly got used to it, though it’s not very pretty. Why can’t it be the same with me?”

“Because you want to see me as some kind of superhuman,” Sherlock tells him. “A hero. An invincible creature. But I’m not one of them.”

John frowns. He’d never thought of it that way, but maybe Sherlock is right. “Well, of course I would want you to be invincible. Then I’d know you wouldn’t get hurt, ever. That I’d never lose you.” Perhaps it sounds a tad dramatic, but it’s true. 

John wraps his hands around Sherlock’s midriff again, tightens his grip. They must look ridiculous, two grown-up men, sitting in a room draped in white sheets and plastic foil, on a makeshift exam table. John doesn’t care.

“I’m going to make this very simple for you,” he says after a pause. “Nothing’s going to turn me off. Period. I haven’t seen your scars, but they’ve been there, all along, and I loved you, and wanted you, and that is not going to stop.” With his head pressed to Sherlock’s chest, John slowly traces the marks on Sherlock’s abdomen with his index finger, one by one. “I know it must have hurt, badly, but it’s over, you shouldn’t torment yourself about it anymore. And certainly not about my presumably bad reaction to seeing that you’ve been wounded. A man like you should have known better than to work on assumptions.”

Sherlock exhales gently into John’s hair. “An excellent speech, John. Are we roleplaying again already?”

It’s Sherlock’s usual teasing manner, but John can tell by his tone that he is touched.

“Not yet, but I suppose we could… go on,” John suggests. “If you want to. I guess, after not seeing Khan in such a long time, his physician would want to check if he was really fine, especially having learned that he’d been tortured. Do you mind if I—ahem—check you for other injuries?”

“Later, Doctor,” Sherlock whispers hotly into his ear.

When they inevitably end up on the bunk-like bed, the stethoscope and other medical equipment temporarily forgotten, desire overwhelming, mixed with a bittersweet tenderness, it feels like they’ve been separated for centuries, both having to fight their battles alone, but it’s somehow going to be all right. There are the two of them now.

**Author's Note:**

> My [Tumblr](http://tenderlywicked.tumblr.com).


End file.
